


you don't miss twice (when you're shaving with a knife)

by ghostsoldier



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Community: grimm_kink, First Kiss, Humor, Kink Meme, M/M, POV Second Person, Portland Oregon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/ghostsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monroe's life has gotten really, really weird.</p><p>Original prompt:<br/>Monroe gets ridiculously turned on when Nick does Grimm work. Maybe it's the focus. Maybe it's the skill. Maybe it's the violence. He's not really sure; he just knows he loves watching it. Bonus points for Nick being a badass and not really realizing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you don't miss twice (when you're shaving with a knife)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [grimm_kink](http://grimm-kink.dreamwidth.org/) forever ago, so there’s pretty much no canon compliance whatsoever from the middle of the first season onward. Oh well.

Sometimes you forget how dangerous he is.

It’s not really the sort of thing you should forget, considering that your first meeting consisted of him storming up to your house, tackling you onto the stairs, and accusing you of kidnapping a little girl. You’d never seen a Grimm up close and he was a hell of a lot younger than you’d expected -- growing up, you always pictured Grimms as big and old, with sharp axes and really bushy beards -- but his eyes were made of flint and he smelled of righteous anger and fearlessness, and the furious gaze just inches from your own gave absolutely no quarter. In that moment, with your throat exposed and his fists in your sweater, you knew he would hound you until you were dead.

Because that’s what Grimms do.

Except…then he came skulking around your yard in the middle of the night, smelling like jangled nerves and bafflement, and it took about two seconds of getting a little wolfish at him for you to realize that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. The kid was a goddamn guppy.

In a really big ocean.

With sharks.

Reformed or not, you probably should’ve taken him out of the picture, especially once he revealed his nightmarish lineage. But sue you, you kinda liked him. Sure, he was sort of a pest and he never thanked you properly and he kept stealing the bagels you bought at New Seasons, but he was also embarrassingly sincere about everything and didn’t actually want to hurt anyone. You may be a monster, but you’re not made of _stone_.

Plus, it was a little freaky how often he came a hairsbreadth away from getting himself killed. You’re pretty sure he would’ve had the lifespan of a fruit fly if you hadn’t been looking out for him over the past few months.

But that’s the thing -- with him flailing around all naïve and well-intentioned and making up his strategy as he goes along, it’s pretty easy to forget that he’s (a) a cop, (b) a pretty good one, and (c) genetically predisposed to badassery. 

The first two, you remember fine. There are plenty of things that go bump in Portland that don’t, but it’s their own damn fault if they get what’s coming to them. That last one, however? You’re just as guilty as everyone else for forgetting it.

(Seriously, though, it’s kind of hard to remember that he comes from a long line of terrifying murderers when you’ve seen him fall asleep in your car with his cheek all smushed against the window. Weirdly adorable? Yes. Badass? No.)

So you think of him mostly as Nick Burkhardt, this dopey detective you know who has great taste in wine but somehow manages to live in this city without knowing a good microbrew if it whacked him upside the head; a guy you’re fairly certain is your friend, only you haven’t had one of those in a while so you’re not entirely sure, but then every once in a while shit gets _crazy real_ and the Grimm comes boiling up out of him. You’re usually a little beyond metaphors whenever this happens, but the closest thing you can compare it to is that time Mt. St. Helens blew the fuck up.

Take now, for instance. From what Nick’s told you, some kids came into the station about a week ago babbling a story about a lady who tried to drown one of them down by the docks below the Eastbank Esplanade. No one took them very seriously, partly because they rolled into the station completely baked and also because the story was stupid as hell, but something about their description of the woman -- silvery eyes, crazy hot, smelled sort of like fish -- set Nick’s Grimm senses a’tingling. 

And that is how you ended up at Riverfront Park at one-thirty in the morning, with a _silver fucking knife_ jutting out of your shoulder.

You suppose it’s just your dumb luck that you’re here instead of Nick’s actual partner. Since no report was ever officially filed, Nick decided to work this one off the books. Apparently, you’ve become his unofficial partner for all things ridiculously dangerous and Grimm-related.

The nixe at the end of the dock is crouched over the body of what you think is a teenage boy. With his tight pants and stupid hair, you weren’t really sure at first. His friends booked the second they saw your headlights, but this poor drunk idiot was too slow to get to his bike before the nixe snagged him. He smells alive, at least, so that’s good. The nixe, on the other hand, just plain reeks.

It’s her knife that’s sticking out of your shoulder, and you’re honestly not sure which of you she was aiming for. It’s a nasty, serrated thing, like a bread knife on steroids; the only reason you haven’t yanked it out yet is because you know a lot of flesh is going to come with it. 

It would take a hell of a lot more than a knife to the shoulder to seriously hurt you, but Nick shoved you behind him the second you got hit, and now he’s got his gun pointed at the nixe, his arms steady and his jaw set. You told him on the way over that bullets won’t do a damn thing to a water creature, but either he forgot or he doesn’t care. 

God, but he’s dumb sometimes. It’s actually kind of embarrassing that you find him so attractive. 

“Lady,” Nick says slowly, “I need you to back away from the boy.”

“He’s mine,” the nixe hisses in a voice like the screaming of a thousand dying fish. “He promised, and he’s _mine_.” 

She’d let go of her shape the moment Nick yelled at her to freeze and drop the kid, and in the yellow-orange glow of the park lights her skin glistens like a muddy oil slick. Both of her eyes are cloudy, dull; _she’s old_ , you thought, right before her knife went searing into your shoulder, _and the pollution years really weren’t kind to her_. 

Being a water spirit in a river like the Willamette has got to be one of the shittiest gigs you’ve heard of in a while.

“He’s a kid,” Nick says. “Whatever he promised you, it doesn’t mean a thing unless he’s eighteen.”

You’re pretty sure the nixe doesn’t give a damn about Oregon minority laws. In fact, you’re pretty sure she has no idea what the fuck they are, given how old she is and how she apparently hasn’t given up the river for the city like so many of her sisters.

As if agreeing with you, the nixe bares her teeth in a hideous rictus of a grin. She’s got a set that could put an angler fish to shame, and that’s saying something considering your own natural dentition. “He promised thrice,” she says. “The ancient laws are stronger than the petty things you shield yourself with, _Grimm_. You of all people should know.”

She’s right, unfortunately, but this is the part you always get a kick out of: _Nick doesn’t give a shit_. Not a single goddamn one.

He must know by now that his gun’s completely useless, but he doesn’t lower it. The flavor of the air around him darkens until it’s bitter as wormwood. This is what you smelled on him when you first met, this terrible, poisonous bitter, and a little shiver goes up your spine. You could sharpen steel with his voice

“I don’t care what he promised,” Nick says. “Or how many times. I’m going to ask you one more time.”

The nixe makes a rattling sound like water rushing over stones. “What will you give me, then, little Grimm? What do you offer in trade?”

Nick’s voice goes flat. “I don’t trade.”

As much as you’d love to watch him continue getting his Grimm on, you feel sort of obligated to step in here. “Uh, actually, you have to. Trust me, man, I know how much it sucks, but three promises are binding.”

Your nostrils flare when his scent blazes a bright, angry red, and you can’t help but inhale deeply and shudder. This, you think, is a perfect example of how fucked your life has become: it’s almost two in the morning and you’ve got a knife sticking out of you, and yet you’re still getting turned on by watching a Grimm argue with a fish-lady.

There aren’t Pilates enough in the world to help you manage this.

"Let me guess," Nick says, scorn all but dripping from the words. "A life for a life, right? That's always how these stories seem to go."

"Your firstborn," the nixe says, "or the next person to laugh in your presence. Perhaps the first person to kiss you tomorrow." Her smile, if you could call it that, is ghastly. "You get to choose."

"Right," Nick says slowly. "Because that always works in the stories and never backfires horribly at all."

Oh no.

Oh, no, no no no.

You know exactly where he's going with this and you don't like it _at all_. "Nick, don't be stupid."

He doesn't take his eyes off the nixe. "I know what I'm doing, Monroe."

"Okay, sure, that's great, except for the part where you _totally don't know what you're doing._."

There's this moment where he relaxes a little and you think he might actually listen to you for once. He's always been good about taking your advice before things get all wooly, but the second the teeth and talons and stingers come out he develops this stupid noble streak that renders him all but deaf to everything you say. Which would be fine and dandy if he wasn't always doing things that could get him killed, but...there you go. Nick Burkhardt: Grimm with an accidental death wish.

Nick lowers his gun and you do a little jig inside your head. Then he says, "I choose--" and your inner glee turns into a howl of dismay because you know his next words are going to be "myself" and you cannot let that happen.

So you lunge forward, growling, "Nick, you idiot, no," at which point your body very helpfully reminds you that there's still a knife sticking out of you and it actually kind of hurts a lot. "--oh fuck _dammit_ , ow!"

Nick half-turns to catch your arm, worry and concern writ large over his painfully open face. "--Monroe? You okay?" 

_Oh shit_ , you think as the nixe suddenly cackles, _shit, shit, shit_ \--

And then you're in the water.

You will deny it to your dying breath, and if anyone asks you will lie your ass off, but the first thing you do as the horrifyingly cold waters of the Willamette close over your head is panic. 

A lot. 

Like, the thrashing around and losing too much air and attracting sharks -- if there were sharks, which there aren't -- sort of panic. As much as you hate to admit it to Nick, blutbaden do have their limitations and running water is one of them. You can cross the stuff just fine, no matter what the stories say. There's no way you would've managed Portland if you couldn't, considering the giant freaking river you're currently drowning in neatly divides the city in half. However, it does keep you stuck in human shape until you're well clear, which is one of the many reasons why you hate getting stuck in traffic over the Fremont Bridge.

Wolf shape would be so much nicer right about now. For one thing, it's a hell of a lot better at swimming.

You somehow manage to flail your way back to the surface, where Nick is on his hands and knees at the edge of the dock and screaming at the nixe. Who, you realize as an arm snakes around your neck and sharp fingers clench in your hair, is in the water right behind you.

"-- right now!" Nick yells, and then he sees you and breaks off, relief pouring into his expression. "Monroe!"

"Glulb," you say, which in Drowning means, "Fuck you sideways, Grimm, maybe you should listen to me next time."

"I was surprised by your choice, little Grimm." The nixe's fingers tighten and she jerks your head back, forcing you to expose your throat. "From the way this one acted, I thought you called him friend."

Even from the water, you can smell the anger and guilt roiling in the air around him. "It was a mistake," he snarls. "It was a mistake and you know it."

Cold, wet claws caress your throat. "What's done is done is done," the nixe croons. "It's been so long since I've tasted one of his kind."

Furiously, you will your body to cooperate. If you could just shift, you'd be picking fishy shreds of nixe flesh out of your teeth in two seconds flat, reform church be damned. Yeah, sure, the nixe is people-shaped and in your world that counts for something, but you've already made up your mind that this one's a freebie. After all, it's not like you're going to eat her or anything. You just want to bite her face off. That's totally allowed.

Unfortunately, your body doesn't seem to care and stubbornly remains human, and struggling doesn't do you much good either. The nixe just dunks you under the minute you try to twist away, and she holds you there long enough that your lungs are screaming and the panic alarm's blaring in your head by the time she hauls you up again. She's terribly strong. 

"Such a frightened little puppy," she hisses as you cough up muddy river water. "Perhaps I shall be cruel and make him watch as I kill you."

Nick's hands are clenched at the edge of the dock. "Take me instead," he says.

You try to wrench away again. "Dammit, Nick, stop doing--gluglb." And back under you go. 

The water around you is black, black, black, tastes of silt. Until you met Nick, you never really spared much thought to how you'd die. Blutbaden don't worry about things like that, not usually. 

Then he stormed into your life and you spent a day or so thinking your death would be at his hands, and then later you just assumed it would somehow involve him. Not on purpose or anything. The guy just attracts trouble the way fresh laundry attracts cats.

It's funny -- you'd hoped to go out a lot more heroically than this. Or at least in the proper shape.

Your vision is gray around the edges by the time she pulls you up again, and there's a broken note of pleading in Nick's voice that makes your stomach hurt. "Please," he says.

The nixe makes a terrible choking noise. It takes you a moment to realize she's laughing. "No."

"What, you want me to say it three times? I'll do it. Just let him go."

"But I don't want you, little Grimm," the nixe says. "I want _this_ one," and just like that Nick's expression goes blank and hard.

"Fine," he says. "You want to play it that way? We'll play it that way." He leans forward over the water. "Let him go, or I'll speak your true name."

The nixe laughs again. The sound makes you want to claw your eyes out. 

“Fry,” she sneers. “ _Infant_. I could take this one and a thousand more before the first syllable of my true name fell from your tongue.”

Nick’s smile is a cold, awful thing, and heat pools in your chest at the sight of it. He smells like wormwood again, so strong you can taste it even over the silty cold of the river and the nixe's salmony reek, and good God what is wrong with you _this is really not the time_.

“You think so?" he says. “Because I did my research, lady. I read the notes, looked for the patterns, all that fancy Grimm hoopla. Your trail goes back a long, long time, but it’s still a trail. 

"And I’m a detective.” 

He leans forward, voice deathly quiet. “I found your wellspring, lady. Still think I don't know your name?”

You wince as the claws in your hair spasm. The arm around your neck has gone very tight and very still.

“So what will it be?” Nick says. “You release my friend and the boy, leave this river for good? Or do you want to find out just how good a detective I am?”

He's so terribly calm. That's the worst part, or perhaps the best depending on which portion of your anatomy is doing the thinking. There had been genuine fear in him when you first went in the water, but if it's there now you can't smell it and he certainly doesn't look afraid. His posture has relaxed into something almost predatory, something that makes your teeth ache and the wolf pace. If you get out of this alive, you'll...you'll...

...do nothing, probably. It wasn't all _that_ long ago he showed up on your doorstep reeking of alcohol and despair, his eyes hollow and so very sad. "I ended it," he'd said, "I ended it and you and my dead aunt are the only ones who know why," and you'd wordlessly let him in, made him some decaf, and let him sleep it off on your couch. You haven't talked about it since.

Still. Just because you won't do anything doesn't mean you can't want to. It's probably a good thing you don't socialize much with other blutbaden, because they would laugh their asses off if they could see you now: all but drowned at the hands of a bugfuck crazy nixe, courtesy of the stupidly attractive Grimm you kind of have the hots for.

Maybe you could've done with a little more excitement in your life before Nick came along, but this is definitely not the kind of excitement you had in mind.

Nick's terrible smile has disappeared, but the expression left in its wake isn't any more comforting. "Well?" he says.

"The boy made his promises," the nixe rattles frantically. "The blutbad was fair trade. You have no right!"

"The way I see it," Nick says, voice thoughtful, "you're coming out ahead in the deal. Your life for theirs. Sounds like a fair trade to me."

There's no way this will work. No fucking way.

“I really don’t want to kill you,” Nick says. Regret and sincerity are pouring out of him in waves, pale blue and sour-sweet, and if you were the nixe you'd be very afraid right now. “But I will.” 

For a long moment, the three of you are frozen in this tableau: Nick a sinuous, feline shadow crouched at the edge of the dock, the nixe rigid in the water behind you, you...well, okay, you're mostly just trying not to get water up your nose, but it's not like you really have a lot of options at the moment.

"You wouldn't," the nixe says finally. She doesn't sound very sure of herself.

Nick does. "Try me."

With a guttural shriek of rage, the nixe shoves you forward with one clawed hand and yanks the knife out of your shoulder with the other. Your howl of pain cuts off when you forget that you're supposed to be treading water. You're not entirely sure, but you think you end up swallowing half of the river and inhaling the other half.

When you manage to splutter your way above water again, Nick's hanging so far off the edge of the dock that he looks like he's about to fall in. "Monroe! C'mon, grab my arm."

"You've helped enough already," you snap, still coughing, and then grab his arm anyway.

Between the two of you, you manage to wrangle yourself out of the water and back onto the floating dock. This, you decide, is as good a place as any to flop on your back and bleed quietly for a while. The city lights reflecting off the underside of the clouds overhead have turned the night sky the color of an old bruise. There's probably something poetic in that, but you're too damn tired to care.

"Is she gone?" Nick says. He's absolutely soaked. You can feel him shivering next to you.

"Yup," you tell him. "Can't smell her anymore, although if I were you I'd avoid taking any long walks along the river for a while, just in case."

He laughs quietly, and just as suddenly breaks off. "Jesus," he says, sounding horrified. "You're really bleeding."

You roll your head to the side and give him the most scornful look you can muster. "Yeah, there's this thing that happens when you get stabbed and--"

He's not even listening to you, not really. He just wriggles out of his coat and starts peeling off his sodden button-down, and you really want to hate yourself for how you can't help but perk up a little. 

Then again, you've had a very rough night and his undershirt is practically _plastered_ to him. You're allowed to look.

"Here," he says. You hiss in pain as he presses the wadded up shirt against the wound on your shoulder. "I know this would work a lot better if it was dry, but at least the pressure should help a little."

"My hero," you grumble.

Nick startles you by reaching down with his free hand to carefully sweep the dripping hair out of your eyes. "Seriously," he says. "Are you okay?"

Your heart is suddenly pounding against your ribs. "Peachy," you rasp. There's just enough light for you to see the corner of his mouth quirk up in an odd half-smile.

"I didn't mean for that to happen, you know," he says. "You had me really worried."

You turn your gaze skyward again, because you can't stand how the shadows are making his expression look almost tender. "Well, you Grimmed your way out of it, so no harm done. Although it would've been helpful if you'd told me about the wellspring before she tried to murder me. Like, I don't know, maybe in the car?"

Nick says, "Um."

"'Um'?" You lift your head off the dock to stare at him. "What the hell does that mean, 'um'?"

"Maybe I might've fudged a little on the issue with the wellspring," he says slowly, and if your jaw could drop any lower it would fall right off.

"You were _bluffing_?!"

"I didn't know what else to do!" he snaps. "She was going to _drown_ you, Monroe, it's not like I had a whole lot of time to think of a good exit strategy--"

You haul him down and kiss him, stab wound be damned.

For a moment he's utterly frozen and you think, _shit, too soon, too soon_ , but then he sighs into your mouth and kisses you back and the only thing left in your mind is _YES_.

It turns out that Grimms are pretty good kissers. Or maybe it’s just Nick. Either way, you’ll take it.

Nick pulls away a lot sooner than you’d like. The expression on his face is one of sheer, doofy affection, and it kind of messes with your head a little: you’re not sure whether you want to strip him naked and do incredibly dirty things to him, or install him in your kitchen so you can make him pancakes and organic scrambled eggs.

“Hi there,” he says softly.

“Hey yourself,” you reply, and good _god_ , could you sound any dumber? Before you have a chance to add anything else, someone farther up the dock suddenly goes, “Haha, _ewwwwww_.”

You roll your head to the side. The nixe’s teenage victim, blessedly unconscious up until this point, appears to have rejoined the land of the functional and is now sitting there like an idiot, gawking at the two of you. Sometimes, you really regret the whole reform thing. 

“Well, look who’s awake,” Nick says. “How are you feeling?”

“Dude, what do you care?” says the kid, and then blanches when Nick fishes out his badge and flips it open. “Aw, shit. You’re not going to arrest me, are you? Because I’ve got, like, rights and stuff.”

You really like when Nick’s world-weary sigh is directed at people other than you. “Is there a reason I should arrest you?” he says, and when it looks like the little idiot is _actually thinking about it_ , he says, “No, don’t answer that. God. Look, how old are you?”

The kid goes _tharn_ like a Richard Adams rabbit. “…uh. Twenty-two?”

You burst out laughing. The dumbass couldn’t smell more like a nervous seventeen-year-old if he tried. 

“Right,” Nick says. “Okay. You, go get in the car. I’m driving you home.”

“What about my bike?” says the kid, sounding hilariously affronted.

“That’s really your priority right now?” Nick snaps. “Really?”

“It’s a fixie,” the kid mutters, and you can’t help but feel a warm surge of affection for Nick right now, because he looks like he’s three seconds away from throttling the little bastard.

“We’ll take off the wheels and put it in the trunk,” Nick says finally. The kid looks like he’s about to argue, and then obviously thinks better of it.

“And _you_ ,” Nick says, finally returning his attention to you, “are getting checked out at Legacy Good Sam.”

“Oh, come on. This is nothing!”

Nick looks like he’s about three seconds from throttling you too. “Monroe…”

“Look,” you say quietly, “I’m not that crazy about hospitals, okay? They don’t smell right and I’m a quick healer. Get a little breakfast in me and I’ll be fine.”

He frowns. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Some warm milk with a splash of brandy, then. Sheesh.”

Nick doesn’t say anything, just sighs and helps you to your feet so the two of you can lurch carefully up the dock towards the shore. The kid trails behind like a sullen, hungover duckling. 

“Why Good Sam?” you ask, for lack of anything better to do while Nick dismantles the fixie and the kid mutters complaints under his breath. “OHSU’s, like, just a little ways north right across the river. Not that I want to go or anything,” you add quickly. “Just, you know. Wondering.”

Nick ducks his head and shoves the bike into the back of his SUV a little harder than strictly necessary. He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “Because Good Sam’s closer to my house.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Little forward, don’t you think? We’ve kissed, what, once now? And there was mortal peril involved, so I’m not entirely sure it counts.”

Embarrassment is a good smell on him, you decide. It’s a sweeter smell than anger and a lot more red, and when he shoots you a _look_ your grin has entirely too many teeth.

“You want it to count?” Nick says. The embarrassment is slowly bleeding away to be replaced by a smell just as red and far more toothsome. His voice is low. “I can make it count.”

 _Ooh_ , your hindbrain says. _Yes, please._

“Oh my God,” the kid says. “I’m _right here_.”

Nick sighs deeply and knuckles at his forehead. “Right,” he says, “right, of course you are.” He hustles you all into the car, where it takes a solid five minutes to convince the kid to give up his actual address. It’s only Nick’s warning glance that keeps you from wolfing out in frustration, which is seriously unfair -- it’s late, you’re soaked, you’ve been _stabbed_ , and now you’re being cockblocked by a petulant teenager who smells like vomit and Boone’s Farm. Somehow, this has become your life. 

Nick keeps sneaking glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. “So,” he says, his voice casual in a way that’s not-at-all-forced- _ohwait_. “Is that a yes on staying at my place tonight?”

He sounds so incredibly hopeful that it’s causing you _physical pain_.

Because this is your life now, and because it’s technically his fault you got stabbed, you pretend to think about it. “You’re aware that you never actually asked, right? Because I’m pretty sure I would’ve recalled you saying, ‘Monroe, would you like to spend the night so I can do filthy things to your person and buy you breakfast at Zell’s tomorrow morning? P.S. Sorry I got you stabbed, I’ll make it up to you with expensive coffee.’”

Nick’s smile is bright and blinding. “Monroe,” he says, “would you like to spend the night so I can--“

“Yes,” you say quickly, because there are children present and as much as you want to hear Nick utter the phrase, “so I can do filthy things to your person,” you only have so much self-control and you really, _really_ can't handle that right now. “Yes, yes, a million times yes. Now keep your eyes on the road so you don’t drive us into a tree, God.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Nick says, smirking, and…huh. Wow. You are going to endeavor to get him to say that again in the near future, many times, preferably when you’re both wearing a lot less clothing.

In the backseat, the kid makes a gagging noise and Nick glares at him in the rearview mirror, launches into a lecture about underage drinking and river safety and correct me if I’m wrong, but there didn’t seem to be a helmet along with that bike, _young man_. Head injuries can kill.

You settle back against the seat and close your eyes. 

This is your life now, you think.

You’re surprisingly okay with that.


End file.
